lexiiscorect

[lexiiscorect]

random af bot drop

ART DONALDSON - stepbrother (m4f)

The walls are thin. At least—that's what Art tells himself to make himself feel better about the uncouth thoughts he seems to have every time he hears the noises coming from your room whenever your boyfriend is over. But... what happens when you knock on Art's bedroom door, instead?

ART DONALDSON - levii's jeans (gn)

Art used to spend his childhood summers on his grandma's ranch, soaking up the sun and drinking his weight in sweet tea. Now that he's retired from tennis, you, him, and the kids have moved down and made it your home. It's the life of your dreams.

based on this fic

PATRICK ZWEIG - vielle fortune et vieil amour (gn)

You and Patrick were written in the stars, but also in solid gold. At least—that's what everyone thought. He pushed you away, though, and over time, lost all of the riches he used to shower you with. When you find out he's sleeping in his car a while after he's no longer yours, you can't just leave him like that, right?

based on this fic

PATRICK ZWEIG - spider-man? (gn)

You and Patrick go to school together. He's a friend, sure, but nobody outstanding in your life. On a dark night, you happen to be in the wrong place at the wrong time—luckily, Spider-Man swings in to save you. But now, he needs you to save him.

PATRICK ZWEIG - la sombra (gn)

2 weeks after a rocky divorce, you're stepping onto the warm, off-the-grid island known locally as La Sombra. Unfortunately, it's too hot. You've got to open a window. But this one just won't budge... thankfully there's a gorgeous, shirtless stranger willing to help.

based on this fic

ART AND PATRICK - don't talk about it (m4f)

There was no defining your relationship. Honestly, it was kind of impossible. Patrick seemed to stake some sort of claim on you, but it didn't seem to matter much, considering Art always got to join in on the fun. It was just about sex, right? Nothing else. Nothing you want to talk about, anyway.

based on this fic

TASHI DUNCAN - portrait of a lady on fire (gn)

Tashi's mother commissions you for a portrait of her daughter—one final work of art to commemorate what could have been the greatest tennis career of all time. Tashi is still bitter, though. She probably always will be. She won't cooperate enough to let you get a good sketch of her... but maybe she'll take a liking to you.

REGULUS BLACK - cooler than me (gn)

Per usual, you're spending your summer over at James Potter's house with your closest friends. This time, though, Sirius brings along his younger brother, Regulus. He isn't normally very interested in Sirius's attempts to 'keep the light in him', but something about you is... captivating.

HARVEY SPECTER - love of his life (m4f)

Harvey Specter is not a weak man. No. He's the most ruthless, arrogant, suave lawyer in New York. He doesn't sit down for anything or anyone... except for you, his wife.

JAKE PERALTA - scared of the dark (gn)

It's another day in the precinct when you and Jake are sorting through the evidence room, looking for god-knows-what. Unfortunately, the power goes out in the city, and the door locks. Jake is scared of the dark... but not of you.

----

bot request form

taglist (join here!): @kimmyneutron @babyspiderling @queensunshinee @hanneh69 @jamespotteraliveversion @glennussy @awaywithtime @artstennisracket @artdonaldsonbabygirl @blastzachilles @jordiemeow @larasreality @soulxinxthexsky @voidsuites @elsieblogs @deeninadream @nozhdyved @writtenbyhollywood @love-ella333 @jesuistrestriste @hangels @gibsongirrl @destinedtobegigi @cha11engers

[lexiiscorect]

thank you for the tag ml!! 💗

really happy with this 😇😇

npt 💌 : @pittsick @imperishablereverie @ellecdc @voidsuites @blastzachilles

tag game i saw on pinterest!! just search up the words on pinterest to see how pinterest sees you :)

Here’s mine:

tagging: @sugarfaist @femme-lusts @cinnamongmm + anyone who wants to do it!

[lexiiscorect]

hi mika! I’m not sure if you take request from anon but anyways, I hear that your sick and I hope you feel better, feel free to complete this whenever! :) <3

but reader x scenemo!patrick, what’d it would be like to give him a blowjob w his magic cross piercing and like just teasing it? sorta like that other piercing request!

cw: mdni. +18. 1.3k words. afab reader. messy and disgusting oral sex (patrick receiving). deepthroating. gagging & choking. saliva play. facial. ball play. dacryphilia. titjob. piercing kink. hair pulling. degrading. breath play.

taglist: @blastzachilles, @lvve-talks, @jordiemeow, @222col, @soulxinxthexsky, @diyasgarden, @jinxedbambi, @lexiiscorect, @religionlost, @bluestrd, @jclolz22, @destinedtobegigi, @imperishablereverie, @lovefaist, @shahabaqsa0310, @prismozo, @jesuistrestriste, @grimsonandclover, @nozhdyved, @artstennisracket, @yardofbrunettes, @hangels, @sweetheartfaist, @lacelottie

You’re on your knees, palms flat to the floor between his spread thighs, staring up at the pretty curve of Patrick’s cock like it’s art. Filthy, wet, twitching art—complete with a shiny silver cross piercing right beneath the head.

You’d thought about it a hundred times since he told you he had one. But seeing it? Inches from your face, slick with precum, throbbing from the way your breath ghosts over it?

Obsession. Instant.

Patrick’s leaned back against his headboard, hoodie bunched under his arms, his jeans shoved down to his knees. He watches you with that lazy, cocky smirk, hair tousled, lip ring catching the light.

“You’ve been staring for like a full minute,” he drawls. “You gonna suck it or frame it?”

You wrap a hand around the base and give it one slow stroke. It’s heavy, warm, already hard, and leaking for you. The piercing glints with a tiny droplet clinging to it. You swipe your thumb through it and smear it down the underside of his cock.

“Just admiring the jewelry,” you murmur, leaning in.

You lick him slow—tongue tracing along the vein on the underside, then curling up over the head, flicking over the cross like it’s something to taste. The metal’s cold, contrasting sharp against his flushed skin.

Patrick’s hips twitch. “Shit.”

You smile up at him as you suck the tip into your mouth, tongue circling that little barbell until he groans, hand sliding into your hair.

Your spit’s everywhere already. Slippery trails run down his cock to your knuckles as your hand strokes the base. Drool pours freely from the corners of your mouth as you pull back and dive in again, a slick schhlkk sound ringing out every time you move.

“God, you’re so—fuck. You’re gonna make a mess, huh?”

You don’t answer. You just let your mouth go slack, letting drool pour down from the corners of your lips as you sink lower. The piercing bumps against your tongue and you gag softly as he hits the back of your throat.

You answer by forcing yourself down further, feeling the stretch, the sting as the tip nudges the back of your throat again—and then you push past it, letting him slide deep into the tight heat until your nose brushes his pelvis and his bush.

Patrick’s breath hitches. “Fucking hell. You’re choking already?”

You pull back just enough to gasp and stroke him with one hand. Spit strings from your lip to his cock, glistening. Your voice is hoarse and breathless when you say, “Told you I was curious. Wanna see what that piercing feels like when you’re fucking my throat.”

Patrick huffs a laugh, but it’s strained. “Yeah? Mouth open then, baby.”

You take a deep breath and do just that—relaxing your jaw, widening your throat, letting him guide your head back down. His hand tightens in your hair as he starts moving his hips, slowly at first, then faster. He thrusts into your mouth like he owns it.

And you let him.

His cock slides in and out, the piercing catching against your tongue every time. Your gag reflex is in full revolt, and tears drip down your chin to mix with the stringy spit and leaking precome coating your chest. You’re making the loudest, wettest sounds—obscene, gaggy, messy.

You gag, loudly, every time the cross hits the back of your throat, eyes watering almost immediately. Spit floods your mouth and spills out past your lips. It’s messy. Disgusting. Perfect.

“Fucking look at you,” Patrick groans. “Drooling all over yourself—shit, yeah, just like that. Fuck.”

You moan around him, letting him rut deeper, harder. You feel your throat bulge, spit bubbling at your lips, tears sliding down your cheeks. You’re a total wreck. You know it. He knows it.

You hum around him once more, loving the strain in your jaw, the ache in your throat, the way spit bubbles at your lips. When he pulls back for breath, his cock pops from your mouth with a glck, covered in a web of drool that connects it to your lips.

You pant, eyes glassy, spit smeared across your cheeks and chin, breasts glistening from where it dripped down before he pushes your head down on his cock; throat clenching when his pierced tip hit the back again. You gag.

But god, it turns you on how wrecked he looks too—mouth open, breath ragged, the tiniest tremble in his thighs. His whole body is wired like he’s about to snap.

You pull off with a gasp, coughing once, spit dangling from your chin to the head of his cock. You pump him slow, keeping it wet.

“Wanna taste your balls,” you rasp.

Patrick blinks. “Jesus—”

You cut him off by ducking your head and sucking one of his balls into your mouth, wet and hot. You swirl your tongue around it, moaning softly as you stroke his shaft. Then you move to the other, taking it deeper, messy as hell, drool soaking your chin and dripping onto the sheets.

His voice breaks. “That’s so fucking filthy. You’re—fuck, baby, you’re unreal.”

You pull off, mouth open, tongue hanging out as you jerk him off over your tits. Your chest is slick—spit and precum smeared between your breasts. You press them together and look up at him.

“Fuck them,” you whisper. “Use them.”

His breath catches. “Fuck…”

Patrick slides his cock between your tits, guiding your hands to squeeze them tight around him. You press them together and lean forward, sucking the tip into your mouth every time it pops up from the valley of your cleavage.

It’s obscene. Sloppy, wet, loud.

Your tongue teases the cross every time it reaches your lips, and you can feel him twitch more with every stroke. His cock slips between your tits and into your throat in a steady rhythm, his groans getting louder each time.

Then he grips your hair again and pulls you back up to his cock.

“Mouth,” he growls. “Let me fuck that pretty throat.”

You open wide without hesitation, spit already pooling on your tongue.

He slides back in and you take him deeper than before. The piercing bumps the back of your throat and you gag again, loudly, tears streaking your face. But you don’t stop.

You want it.

You want him to wreck your throat.

So he does.

Patrick starts fucking your mouth hard. His hips snap forward, fast, messy, desperate. His balls slap your chin. His cock sinks all the way down until your lips are stretched wide and your throat is bulging around him.

You’re crying. Drooling. Choking. Wet squelch, schlkk, glck sounds fill the room like a symphony of sin.

It’s a fucking masterpiece.

“You’re—fuck, you’re crying on my cock,” he pants. “So fucking messy, baby. Gonna come all over that ruined little face.”

You nod as best you can, mouth stretched full. Your hand slides up to fondle his balls as he fucks your throat harder, faster. Every thrust makes you gag, and you can feel the way his thighs start to shake.

“Open wide,” he groans. “Wanna see that tongue, baby. Gonna—gonna fucking—fuck—”

He pulls out just in time.

You open your mouth, tongue out, eyes wide and soaked with tears as Patrick jerks himself twice—and then he comes.

Hot, thick ropes land across your tongue, your lips, your chin. Some splashes your cheek. Some hits your tits. It’s everywhere—warm and messy and dripping. You hold still until he’s done, until he stops twitching, until his hand falls from your hair.

Then you look up at him—completely fucking wrecked—and let the cum spill from your tongue down your chest, mixing with spit and sweat and everything else you made between your bodies.

Patrick’s staring at you like he can’t believe you’re real. Chest rising and falling fast. His hair’s a mess. His eyes are half-lidded and blown out with lust.

“You’re insane,” he breathes.

You smile, wipe a finger through the mess on your tits, and suck it into your mouth. “Told you I was curious.”

He leans back against the headboard, totally gone. “If you ever wanna test out a different piercing… just let me know and I’ll get it.” He jokes, chuckling.

You smirk. “One at a time, baby.”

[lexiiscorect]

Happy father’s dilf art😔 You are missed 😢

[lexiiscorect]

2010 cincy art’s sleeve was FIGHTING FOR ITS LIIIIIFFFFE against that bicep

[lexiiscorect]

Here are little red cards for anyone living in the US that you can print out and keep, that list out all your rights incase you ever came in contact with an immigration agent.

30+ languages for anyone and everyone who needs it. Know your rights!

[lexiiscorect]

LOVE ME TO DEATH .ᐟ

BOTS: ART DONALDSON PATRICK ZWEIG TASHI DUNCAN

part one ・ part two ・ part three

summary: The nightmare isn’t over—you're being hunted again, only this time, you're done running. As paranoia spirals and old enemies resurface, a deadly game begins between predator and prey. In the end, someone’s mask will shatter—and someone else will finally learn how to wear it.

cw: 1.7k words. apt!scream au. graphic violence. stalking & paranoia. psychological manipulation. use of weapons. mention of torture. dissociation and identity shift. home invasion. death. blood.

genre: psychological horror / slasher / thriller.

taglist: @blastzachilles, @lvve-talks, @jordiemeow, @strfallz, @222col, @soulxinxthexsky, @diyasgarden, @jinxedbambi, @lexiiscorect, @religionlost, @bluestrd, @jclolz22, @destinedtobegigi, @imperishablereverie, @lovefaist, @shahabaqsa0310, @prismozo, @jesuistrestriste, @grimsonandclover, @nozhdyved, @artstennisracket, @yardofbrunettes, @hangels, @sweetheartfaist, @lacelottie

You’ve moved twice since Stanford. Changed your name. Dyed your hair. You don’t talk about what happened, not to anyone, not even therapists—not that you trust them. You don't sleep easily anymore. Shadows linger in the corners of your room a little too long. There’s always a cold spot behind you, no matter how warm the room is. You tell yourself it’s over. You survived. You made it out.

But in the quiet moments, you know the truth. They're still out there.

Art, Patrick, Tashi. Your roommates. Your friends. The murderers. And worst of all… they let you live. That wasn’t kindness. It was a curse. One that you have to carry until your final days.

It starts again with the tennis ball.

It’s sitting neatly on your windowsill one rainy morning. You open the curtains and it’s just… there. The same kind they used to practice with. Only now it has a cartoon smile drawn across its surface in red Sharpie. On the back, smeared from the drizzle, are three words:

Come play, sweetheart.

Your blood runs cold. Your heart should race—but it doesn’t. You just stare. They’ve found you, again, like they knew where to search. And they’re asking for a rematch; a game you are still not sure you want to play.

You try to leave town once more. Pack a bag. Buy a bus ticket. But the bus never comes. Instead, a teenage driver stops in front of the stop, rolls the window down, and tosses something at your feet without a word before driving away.

A cassette tape.

It reinforces the thoughts of them watching you, no matter where you are. But paying people to drop hints now? That’s a new one. A new manipulation tactic, the idea that anyone around could be an accomplice.

You don’t think about it until you’re back in your apartment, which is harder than possible. And even then, you play it through your old analog player with reticence. Their voices fill the room like ghosts you never truly buried.

Patrick’s low, teasing drawl. Art’s nervous laughter. And Tashi—God, Tashi—clear and sweet as ever. "You thought it was over? You’re the lead, baby. We were just giving you time to change costumes.”

You sit on the floor for hours after that, the player long silent. It’s happening again. Only this time, you won’t play defense; but attack. And you are ready for this. Because you’re tired of running, of being scared; of crying into the night and nightmares that won’t ever disappear.

They want a final girl? They’ll get something worse, you decide. They want to play the game? You’re going to outplay them.

You spend weeks preparing. Gathering supplies. Ropes. Blades. Cleaning solvents. You fix an old voice changer from Ebay you found for less than $5. You break back into your own trauma, pull out every memory they carved into you and twist it into armor.

You do it slowly, mapping and preparing so it doesn’t look suspicious to vendors, neighbors and friends.

You stop flinching at your reflection. You stop jumping at noises. You start hunting. Because that’s what they want, and you’re going to give it to them.

And the first one you catch is Art.

It’s almost pitiful how easily he gives himself away.

He’s following you—badly. You spot him on a side street, hoodie up, trying to blend in with the college kids. Same gentle gait. Same eyes that never quite know where to land. He thinks he’s invisible.

You almost think he did it on purpose with how visible to your eyes he is.

But he’s never been a good liar. So you leave your window open that night. Just a crack. A soft invitation. And sure enough, around midnight, you hear him enter. Clumsy, quiet. Like he doesn't want to wake you.

He doesn’t know you haven’t slept in days. He doesn’t know the knife is already in your hand and the game’s on.

He’s in your kitchen when you step out. His back to you, opening a cabinet, looking for something—what? Tea? The old him might have. The old him used to bring you honey lemon when you were sick at Stanford and brush back your hair for comfort.

That boy is long gone. “You shouldn’t be here,” you say. He whirls around. Pale. Wide-eyed. You’re not screaming. You’re not crying. You’re not begging anymore. That seems to scare him most.

“I just wanted to see you,” he says. “To talk.”

“You killed seven people.” He flinches. “I didn’t mean—”

“Yes, you did.” You raise the knife without waiting for another word, another movement. It was him or you. He raises his hands.

“Please wait,” he whispers. “Tashi made us. Patrick—he—” You lunge without letting him finish. He tries to run, not even try to push you away. Because he’s soft. Always was. The blade goes in clean, right under his ribs. He gasps, his mouth opens and closes. He sinks to his knees, hands to the wound when you jerk the knife away. “I didn’t want to hurt you,” he chokes.

You kneel with him. Press your forehead to his like he used to. “I know.” You murmur but you don’t even believe your own words. It was his fault; it was their fault. You slit his throat with one practiced motion.

You don’t cry. You don’t even feel. Just… progress and move on. Like nothing happened and like you didn’t have to watch a tutorial on how to cut a body to throw it away on Youtube as a joke. Expect it’s not a joke anymore.

Patrick is harder.

He’s already waiting when you find him. Inside the old rec center at the edge of town, where the local kids go to drink and screw and dare each other into ghost stories. The type that smells like gasoline, sweat and sex in every corner.

He’s cleaned the place out. Set up candles. Mirrors. Your photos—some stolen from your social media, others from places you don’t remember being watched. They’ve been defaced. Eyes blacked out. Mouths cut open.

You always knew Patrick was the most deranged one; there was something wrong with him from the moment you two met.

He's watching you through one-way glass when you enter. He speaks through the walls. “Nice to see you again, sweetheart.” You don’t flinch.

“You killed Art,” he says. “Messy.” You step into the center of the room and call back, “He was the easiest.” Patrick laughs. It echoes all around you. There’s nothing funny.

“Is this your revenge arc?” he purrs. “Your trauma transformation? I'm so proud.”

“Come out and say that to my face.”

“Oh, no no. That’s how I get stabbed.” You smile. Because he doesn’t know you’ve already found the control panel. The lights go out and all you have to do is wait for the mouse to get out of his corner into the trap.

When he finally stumbles into the center, flashlight raised, he’s cocky, until the bullet rips through his thigh and into his artery. Obviously you had gotten yourself a gun, you weren’t stupid to believe Patrick wouldn’t try to kill you either.

He drops to the floor with a hiss, hurt and surprised, and you emerge from the dark. And for the first time, you see something he never meant to show you: fear. “You think you’re better than us now?” he spits. “You’re not. You loved it. You loved the attention. You miss it.”

The blood is pouring from the hole in his leg, and you see his face paling. The flashlight rolled on the dirty floor to illuminate his being, like a joke.

“I miss not being haunted,” you say softly. Then you drag him by the collar, he’s too weakened to argue. You tie his hands, and whisper every name of every victim he did in his ear before you slit him open like a science experiment. Without any guilt.

Patrick is easier to hide. A tank of gasoline and some matches and you leave the scene like nothing happened.

Two down, one left, you tell yourself. And she’s the one that matters most.

Tashi always mattered most. Tashi was the one who held your hair back when you threw up the night after the first killing. Tashi was the one who rubbed your back and said, “I’ll protect you.” Tashi was the one who kissed you before she let you escape the athletic building lockers back at Stanford. Bloody and bruised.

She’s the reason you became this. So when she walks into your apartment three days later after picking your lock—no mask, no knife, just her—you don’t pretend.

Neither does she.

“You killed them,” she says simply. You nod; there’s no reason to deny. “They deserved it.” She steps forward, eyes scanning your face. “Do I?” You don’t answer. She does.

She smirks. “You look good in red.” You don’t hesitate. You lunge at her with all the rage your body and brain knows; with the fear and paranoia. With the gaslighting and manipulation you felt when she looked at you right in the eyes back then, and said that everything would be alright.

The fight is vicious. No weapons at first. Just teeth and nails and blood and screams. You throw her into the bookshelf. She shatters a lamp over your shoulder. You stab her in the thigh with a fork. She punches you in the mouth so hard your vision whites out and you spit blood.

Still, she grins. “I missed this,” she whispers, cheek split. You grab the knife from the coffee table and you push her down. She looks up at you, breathing hard. “Do it.” She mocks, pupils wide and grinding.

Like she doesn’t expect you to—because you’ll always be their final set. Nothing would come out good of you surviving.

But you’re tired of them still living through your brain; the memories, the fear, the manipulation. Like you didn’t deserve anything but this. You do. And it’s time for Tashi to realize that you can play too.

So you do–right through her shoulder first, through her stomach, through her heart. She gurgles. Blood bubbles from her lips to hit your face. She’s still smiling. “You were always one of us,” she says. You lean in close.

“I’m what comes next.” And twist the blade.

You burn the apartment too. All of it. Everything they touched. Everything you were.

You disappear, change your name again. No one comes looking, like it was your body in the flames, like you died in that apartment. Like a piece of you disappeared and you could never be the same.

There are whispers, of course. Strange deaths after. A new mask. A killer who leaves no witnesses. Some say it’s a woman. Some say it’s a man. Others say it’s the ghost of someone who watched too many horror movies.

But you know the truth. You weren’t the final girl, you were the beginning of a new chapter. You are the knife in the dark. You are the consequence. Maybe they were right, maybe you were always like them… The thrill of a kill itching in your veins, begging you for more right after Art.

But they were wrong, because you didn’t want to play team and didn’t want to be manipulated.

And now? You are Ghostface.

[lexiiscorect]

pov the challengers kiss HEALED YOU ❤️‍🩹🌅

[lexiiscorect]

nasty af smut. like, gross. 18+ mdni. not proofread. patrick x reader x art.

Thinking about Patrick being so mean while he fucks you... and Art just having to add his two cents.

You’re trembling, soaked, riding him like it’s the only thing left your body remembers how to do—but it’s useless. He already had you on your knees earlier, tongue out, eyes glassy, taking his cock down your throat until you could barely hold yourself up. Before that, he’d spent long, messy minutes between your legs, licking you open while you begged. Everything he did left you soaked and wrecked before he even got inside. Now you’re overstimulated—too full, too sensitive—and it shows. Your thighs are shaking, your arms are weak, and all you can do is sink down and grind up, slow and shallow, trying to find any rhythm at all with his cock buried deep in your cunt.

Patrick barely reacts. He lies flat beneath you, stretched out, chest covered in a thick mat of dark, coarse hair that climbs up his pecs and fans out across his collarbones. His happy trail is dark and wild where it disappears beneath your hips, and his stomach is dusted with sweat-slick curls. His legs are hairy and dense, thighs rough with muscle, unshaven and scratchy where they press against your skin. The hair clings to him, damp from heat and exertion, curling slightly where his body glistens. The joint burns between his fingers. The room stinks of weed, sweat, and pussy. Your pussy. He doesn’t bother to thrust. Doesn’t even lift his hips. Just watches you fumble like it’s pathetic—like it’s funny.

Your slick squelches every time you drop down. Thick and loud and messy, obscene against the slap of your thighs to his. Every moan from your throat is soft and broken, every movement desperate, clumsy. You’re leaking around him, making a fucking mess of his cock, the sheets, yourself.

He takes a drag like he’s bored and exhales smoke toward the ceiling. “This all you got?”

You can’t even speak. Just choke on a moan as your walls flutter, clenching uselessly around him. He tsks, nudging your chin up with his knuckles, dragging your mouth toward his.

“Open.”

You do. He kisses you like it’s nothing—shotguns thick smoke past your lips until you’re dizzy, coughing into his mouth. You’re still sputtering when he throws the joint into the tray and sits up, grabs your waist, and manhandles you like he’s tired of pretending you’re doing anything at all.

“Get the fuck off me.”

He flips you hard, palms your ass, and slams back in from behind with one brutal thrust that knocks the breath from your lungs. Your cheek hits the mattress with a wet slap, spit and tears smearing across the sheets.

He stays deep. Stays pressed flush to you, groaning at the heat, the grip, the way you’re already pulsing around him like your body’s begging for it.

“Fuckin’ soaked,” he grits, dragging his hips back and thrusting in slow, filthy strokes that sound just as wet as they feel. “You hear that?”

You do. Every squelch is loud, disgusting, echoing in the room. Your body slaps to his with every movement, skin to skin, sweat to sweat. His happy trail is damp, sticky where it rubs your lower back. His balls slap your soaked cunt with every deep grind.

His hand comes down hard on your ass—once, twice—then again, so loud it stings your ears. You jolt under him, gasp, drool leaking from the corner of your mouth as he spreads you wide and spits right on your hole.

The sound of it makes your cunt clench. It drips down your crack, trails lower, and his thumb follows.

He presses it there—slow, deliberate—rubbing lazy circles around the rim, smearing spit without pushing in. Your body bucks at the contact, heat rolling down your spine as you whimper into the mattress. It’s not even inside you, but it feels like it is. His cock keeps pounding your pussy, ruthless and wet and perfect, while his thumb teases your asshole like it’s next.

He keeps it there. Firm. Steady. Just enough to make you feel the weight of it every time you clench around nothing.

“Yeah,” he mutters, fucking deeper. “I know you fucking want that.”

You’re a mess—sloppy, crying, drooling—and he’s still not done.

The door creaks open. You barely register it—just the faint shift of air, the buzz of cooler air brushing your slick skin.

Patrick doesn’t stop. Not for a second. He pushes your face deeper into the bed and keeps fucking you like no one else is there.

“Yo,” Art says, casually. The fridge clicks open, can hisses. Footsteps.

“She crying already?” he adds, closer now, voice amused but flat.

“Look at her,” Patrick mutters.

You hear the sound of Art walking up, feel the mattress dip as he crouches beside you. Your mouth is open, wet, flushed red and streaked with tears. You’re shaking under Patrick, body jostling with every thrust.

Art presses a finger to your jaw, tilts your face to him. Then he slips two fingers between your lips without asking.

Your tongue curls. You suck them in with a moan like your body knows what to do even if your brain’s long gone.

“She’s gone,” Art mutters, watching the way you slobber all over his fingers. He pushes them deeper until you gag. “Fuckin’ sloppy.”

Patrick grunts, cock dragging slick and hard through your walls, hips slamming into your ass with wet, brutal force. “Tight as ever, though.”

Art pulls his fingers out with a soft pop, then gives your ass a full handful squeeze.

“Feel this,” he mutters. “Fuckin’ perfect.”

“Already did,” Patrick snaps, breath ragged. “Plus, I know she’ll be leaking all night.”

Art hums, unfazed. Takes another sip, then unzips, cock heavy in his hand, already hard—stroking himself slow, using the same fingers still damp from your mouth. Only once he’s leaking at the tip does he start to strip. Shirt off. Then another. Belt undone, pants dropped low. No rush. He kicks them away and steps forward. He’s trimmed, neat, but there’s still a solid bush at the base—soft and full, thick enough to press against your mouth with every thrust. His abs are tight, carved out under a thin sheen of sweat, the dusting of hair from his navel tapering down clean into it. His thighs are strong, sculpted… well, like a tennis player's, just enough hair to catch the light. Patrick doesn’t look up—just yanks your head back by the hair, forces you upright onto your elbows, your neck bent hard as he keeps fucking into you from behind.

Art steps forward and lets his cock tap your lips. Once. Twice. Then he drags the tip across your cheek, smearing precum along the flushed curve of it before giving you two soft, filthy slaps. They land light but cruel. Your mouth opens on instinct.

He doesn't wait. Doesn’t tease. Just slides in—deep, hard, unforgiving. Your throat tightens instantly, gag reflex catching too late. Your whole body jolts forward, but Patrick’s got you by the waist, holding you in place.

“You want it?” Art murmurs.

Patrick grins against your spine. “She always wants it.”

Patrick buries himself deep, slams in hard, stays there—moaning through his teeth as he fills you up. The heat of it makes your whole body jolt. Cum starts to leak around the base before he’s even pulled out.

But he doesn’t stop.

He spreads you open wide and watches it spill out of you, then drives two fingers back in, hard, forcing it back inside. The noise it makes is wet and mean, squelching around his knuckles as your body twitches from the overstimulation.

Your sob is choked, helpless. Your thighs twitch.

And then—he lifts his hand and smacks your clit.

Sharp. Direct. Your scream tears through the room as your whole body jerks, legs kicking, muscles clenching. But before you can even catch your breath, he does it again—faster, meaner.

The second smack lands just right.

You gush.

A hot, wet rush spills out of you, loud and sudden, spraying down his fingers, the inside of your thighs, soaking the sheets below. It hits his stomach, his groin, mixes with the cum he just shoved back in you. The noise is filthy—slick and uncontrollable.

“Fuck,” he groans, breath catching.

“There it is,” Art mutters, still in your throat.

Patrick grabs your hips, fingers digging in hard as you twitch under them, overstimulated and still leaking. He spreads you open again, spit-slick fingers pressing inside—then lower, trailing between the slick mess of your folds and back to your asshole, circling it slow. He teases the rim with the same cum-slick fingers, rubbing around it in lazy, messy passes that make you shiver.

“Made a fucking mess,” he snarls. “I should make you clean it up.”

The sound you make isn’t a moan. It’s nothing. A choked whimper. Airless.

Art groans, hips pushing forward again. “Fuck. Her throat’s clenching.”

“She’ll take it,” Patrick mutters, dragging his fingers out slow, then slamming them back in. “She always does.”

You can’t breathe. Not really. But you don’t stop him. You don’t even try. Tears fall, thick and fast, and Art just wipes them with his thumb like it’s part of the routine.

His cock thrusts shallow and quick, hips pressed tight to your lips, balls against your chin. Every time you gag, he grunts. Every time your throat tightens, Patrick’s fingers thrust deeper.

And Patrick never lets up. His hand works between your legs like he’s testing how much more you can take. How much mess he can make. How much ruin your body will survive before it breaks.

You’re full. Stuffed from both ends. Crying. Twitching.

And they talk about you like you’re not even there.

“Tight as fuck,” Art mutters, breath hitching as your throat clamps down. His pace is stuttering now—hips jerking forward harder, faster. The hand on your jaw tightens, guiding you steady while his grip on your hair pulls you in deeper.

“Should’ve seen her earlier,” Patrick says, low and filthy. “Had her on her knees like a slut.” He watches your cunt twitch around his fingers, grinning like he knows how close you are to breaking again.

Art chuckles. “Isn't she?”

Your moans are muffled around Art’s cock. Your whole body shakes. His pace falters, stutters—hips snap once, twice, then he groans loud through his teeth and pushes deep.

Hot spurts hit the back of your throat. The rest spills out across your tongue, your lips, your chin. He pulls out halfway through the release and lets the last of it land across your cheek, your jaw, your mouth already hanging open and dripping. Thick ropes of it smear down your face, some of it catching in your lashes.

Patrick laughs under his breath. “Fucking nasty.”

You don’t even flinch.

Still twitching around Patrick’s fingers. Still clenching.

But it starts to slow. Patrick’s rhythm eases, the punishing tempo tapering off to slow, dragging pumps of his fingers. Your body is trembling too hard to fight the relief. You sag into the mattress, throat raw, cunt spent, every inch of you dripping with spit, sweat, and cum.

Art exhales like he’s just come down from a high. He steps back, abs flexing as he wipes his cock off with one hand and smears the mess across your cheek with the other. Slow. Casual. Like he’s proud of it.

Patrick doesn’t say anything. Just keeps his fingers inside for a moment longer, feeling the way your walls flutter around the overstimulation, then finally slips out with a slick, obscene sound. He leans forward and presses a single kiss to the base of your spine.

You breathe.

Just barely, but it’s something.

Your face is sticky, your body limp, your pulse still crawling fast under your skin—but they’re quiet now. It’s over.

For now.

[lexiiscorect]

CHALLENGERS 80’S AU BOTS 🪩

ART DONALDSON

Take my breath away (Berlin).

Art Donaldson was your boyfriend way back in high school. The paths you two were on were completely different, that’s the only reason you split up in the first place. What happens when you meet again at your ten year high school reunion?

Woman (John Lennon).

Art’s hopelessly in love with you. Before his uprising came in men’s tennis, you were always there. Maybe it’s the honeymoon phase after just getting married, but. He’s never truly known success before you. No matter how many grand slams he holds under his belt.

PATRICK ZWEIG

Let’s hear it for the boy! (Deniece Williams)

Patrick may not be perfect, like, at all. But, he’s yours and he does everything in his power to show you how much he loves you.

Every breath you take (The Police).

Ever since the break up, Patrick’s been a wreck. Watching about your success from the sidelines, showing up to every game, overplaying the tape you made for him on his walkman. He’d do anything to get you back. That’s why he shows up to your match, to do exactly that.

TASHI DUNCAN

I want to know what love is (Foreigner).

You’ve never felt love for anything or anyone before. Not any of your ex boyfriends, not even family. So why is it that your heart gets this aching feeling every time you’re around your best friend Tashi?

The Lady in red (Chris De Burgh).

Watching Tashi at prom feels like floating, she looks gorgeous in red. When she dragged you to the dance floor for a dance, it turned into a slow one. Bodies flushed, sparks flying. Did you really only see her as a friend?

Im so sorry this took forever!! I just had no motivation and i’ve been busy the last three days but!! here it is i hope everyone enjoys!!

(note: all bots are based in the 80’s!)

[lexiiscorect]

metalhead!art and emoscene!patrick spit roasting reader.. 🌬️🌬️

WHO SAID THAT!??

pairing: metalhead art x afab reader x scenemo patrick.

cw: +18. mdni. spit roasting. praise. dumbification. oral sex. fingering. nipple play. spanking. spitting. double penetration. anal sex. no protection. dacryphilia. dirty-talking. name calling. impact play.

taglist: @blastzachilles, @lvve-talks, @jordiemeow, @strfallz, @222col, @soulxinxthexsky, @diyasgarden, @jinxedbambi, @lexiiscorect, @religionlost, @bluestrd, @jclolz22, @destinedtobegigi, @imperishablereverie, @lovefaist, @shahabaqsa0310, @prismozo, @jesuistrestriste, @grimsonandclover, @nozhdyved, @artstennisracket, @yardofbrunettes, @hangels, @sweetheartfaist

The dressing room still reeked of weed and sweat. Thin walls rattled with the muffled bass thumping from the club’s main floor, but the crowd had started to scatter.

You weren’t paying attention to the noise anymore — not when Art had you bent over the ratty old couch, fingers curled into the cushions, and Patrick had just grabbed a fistful of your hair like he owned your throat.

“Fuck,” Art muttered from behind, thick fingers spreading your slick folds. “She’s soaked. You dripping for us already, baby?”

You whimpered as he smacked your pussy hard — a wet slap echoing off the walls. You jolted, legs trembling. Patrick laughed, low and cruel, already tugging your top down to expose your tits.

“She’s too eager,” he said, eyes gleaming under his smudged eyeliner. “Like a good little slut. Bet you’ve been waiting for this all damn night.”

You had. The second Art had dragged you backstage and Patrick followed, eyes raking over you like he wanted to bite down and mark, your stomach had twisted with heat. They were complete opposites — Art in his black jeans and band tee soaked through with sweat, hair wild and long; Patrick in eyeliner, shredded sleeves, too many belts and that stupid scene mullet.

But they had you caged in between them now. Hungry. Mean. Ready to ruin.

“Tell him you want it,” Art said, pressing two fingers inside you without warning.

You gasped, body clenching around the sudden stretch. “I— I want it—”

Patrick leaned in and spat into your open mouth. “I know you do.” You moaned, swallowing like you were trained to, tongue peeking out for more.

“Fucking nasty,” Patrick laughed, tapping your cheek before reaching down to stroke his cock, already hard and leaking. “She likes it. Look at her — brain’s already fucked out and we haven’t even started.” Art curled his fingers inside you, scissoring slowly, knuckles dragging against your slick walls. “She’s dripping down my hand, dude.”

You could barely keep your legs steady. Your tits bounced with every shift, nipples aching from the way Patrick had twisted them in punishment for hesitating when he talked to you. Your throat was sore from the sounds you were making — moans, whines, whimpers — but you didn’t stop. Not with their attention burning into you. Not with Art’s voice deep and low in your ear and Patrick’s cock brushing your lips as he moved closer.

“Open wide,” Patrick said, fingers on your chin.

You obeyed instantly, mouth slack, tongue out. He slapped your cheek with his cock twice — wet, heavy, cruel — before feeding it to you slowly.

“That’s it,” he groaned, sliding in inch by inch. “Choke on it. Gag for me, sweetheart.”

Art pumped his fingers harder, curling them just right. Your walls clamped down, body jerking with need, throat choking on Patrick’s cock while Art worked you open like a toy.

The couch creaked beneath you as Art stood, lining up his thick, aching cock with your fluttering hole. He rubbed his tip along your slick folds, brushing against your clit which made you moan around Patrick’s cock.

“She ready?” Patrick asked, hand twisted in your hair now, shoving you deeper onto him.

Art chuckled darkly. “She’s begging for it, man.”

And then he pushed in — slow but forceful — splitting you open on his cock. Your cry was muffled by Patrick’s dick buried in your throat. “Fuuuck,” Art groaned. “Tight little pussy, clenching so fucking hard.”

You couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe. Spit was dripping from your mouth, down your chin, smeared across Patrick’s thighs. Your cheeks were flushed and wet, brain gone, body pinned between them.

“Dumb little hole,” Patrick muttered, hips jerking. “Can’t even think, can you?”

You tried to shake your head. Couldn’t. Just gagged again, letting him use your throat while Art started thrusting hard from behind — heavy, punishing slaps of skin-on-skin. Your ass stung from earlier — Patrick had left his mark there too — and now every thrust made your pussy clench tighter around Art’s cock.

Art grunted, one hand gripping your waist tight, the other smacking your ass with bruising force. “Fucking take it.”

Patrick pulled out of your throat, letting you gasp for breath before slapping your face with his wet cock again. “What are you?”

“Y-Your fucktoy,” you whispered, drool on your lips.

“Say it louder.”

“I’m your fucktoy!”

Art spanked you again, but this time lower — right over your pussy — and you screamed, walls tightening around him. “Jesus,” Art hissed. “She likes that.”

Patrick grinned. “Told you she was nasty.”

You were drooling and moaning, breasts swaying from the force of Art’s thrusts. Patrick bent down and sucked one of your nipples into his mouth, teeth grazing over the tender skin, tongue circling and biting.

“Can feel her squeezing,” Art groaned. “Fuck— gonna make her come like this.”

Patrick pulled back and grabbed your chin again, spitting into your mouth one more time before tapping your cheek. “No coming yet,” he snapped. “You want that cock in your ass next?”

Your eyes went wide — you nodded frantically. Art growled low, pulling out with a filthy squelch, slapping your pussy again to watch you flinch.

Patrick grabbed the lube from the bag he'd dropped earlier. “On all four. Ass up, baby.”

You obeyed, legs shaking, hair a mess, lips swollen from sucking cock. You could hear Patrick slicking himself up, and Art was already pumping his cock slowly, watching you with blown pupils.

Patrick knelt behind you, spreading your cheeks. “Tight little hole,” he muttered, rubbing the lube in, circling your rim with a slow, mean finger. “You ever get fucked in both holes at once, baby?”

You whimpered, shaking your head.

“You’re gonna now.”

Art moved in front of you, cock in hand. “Suck me first.” You obeyed instantly, mouth wrapping around his tip, tongue flicking over the slit. “Good girl,” he moaned, fingers tangling in your hair. “So fucking obedient.”

Patrick pushed the first finger into your ass and you gasped around Art’s cock, body clenching from the stretch.

“She’s tight as fuck back here.”

Art was already breathing harder, watching your eyes flutter. “Stretch her.” Patrick pushed a second finger in. You moaned loud, hips jerking. He smacked your ass hard.

“Stay still.”

You whimpered and nodded.

It didn’t take long before Patrick was satisfied. He lined himself up behind you while Art pulled your mouth off his cock with a wet pop. Patrick shoved in — slow, then all at once — and you screamed, nails clawing at the couch. It burned. It was perfect.

Art moved to sit under you, a bit uncomfortably with Patrick behind but he made it work. His cock pushed back inside your pussy. The sensation was overwhelming — both of them deep inside you, filling you completely, grinding against each other through the thin wall of your body.

“Fucking ruined,” Patrick hissed, voice ragged. “Taking us both like a perfect little cum dump.”

You nodded, tears streaming down your cheeks from how full you felt, how good it hurt. They started moving. Patrick’s rhythm was brutal — spanking your ass in time with every thrust — while Art fucked you with groaning need, pelvis slapping your clit every time he bottomed out.

You could hear them moaning, swearing, talking about you like you weren’t even there.

“She’s dripping down my cock,” Art muttered.

“Can feel your dick inside her,” Patrick groaned. “That’s so fucked.”

You could barely breathe, mind spiraling as they spit-roasted you on their cocks.

“Gonna come?” Patrick snarled, yanking your hair back.

You choked on your own moan, nodding frantically.

Art was panting. “Come all over our cocks, baby. Let us feel you milk us dry.”

That did it — your orgasm tore through you like a scream. You cried out, body spasming, every muscle locking tight. Your pussy clenched hard around Art, ass squeezing around Patrick. They didn’t stop.

Patrick was first — he groaned loud, hips slamming into you one final time as he spilled inside, holding your hips in a bruising grip.

Art was next — a low, broken sound as he came inside your pulsing cunt, hands gripping your waist so tight you knew you’d have bruises tomorrow.

They both stayed buried deep for a moment, panting. You were limp between them, body trembling, drool on your chin and cum dripping down your thighs.

Patrick pulled out first, smirking at the mess. “She’s already.” Art stroked your cheek gently, then grabbed your chin. “Look at you.”

Your mascara had run, lips swollen and wet, face flushed. You blinked up at him, dazed.

“Still with us?” he asked softly, stroking your hair. You nodded, a fucked-out smile pulling at your lips.

Patrick chuckled, zipping up his pants. “That was fun.” Art helped you sit up on the couch, gathering you in his arms, holding you close.

“You did so good for us, baby,” he murmured, kissing your forehead.

Patrick moved closer to you with a towel in hand, ready to clean you up just like you deserved and grinned. “We should do that again sometime soon.”

[lexiiscorect]

if they put josh o’connor and i in the same room we’re both coming out pregnant

[lexiiscorect]

i have a niche interest and it’s boys pulling this face.

[lexiiscorect]

CONGRATS ON 400 MIKAAAAA you so so so deserve it! i love ur writing smmmm. okay so I have this idea and i’m thinking chef!patrick x pastry chef!art maybe similar vibes to the bear so a little angsty? like a similar relationship to sydcarmy but art and patrick are actually dating?

meeeeel 💕 thank you so so so much for this! thank you for following me and supporting me, means a lot! <333 and ugh, i love this idea so much 🥹

400 FOLLOWERS GAME.

chef!patrick x pastry chef!art ★ angsty / fluff (?).

The kitchen is loud.

Steam hisses, pans slam, someone’s cursing in the walk-in. Patrick barely registers it—his hands are a blur on the cutting board, knife glinting in time with his heartbeat. He’s behind. Everyone’s behind. The new menu’s a mess, the line’s a mess, and he hasn’t looked at Art in forty-five minutes.

He can feel him though. Across the kitchen, sleeves rolled, forearms dusted in flour, piping roses like it doesn’t matter that everything’s on fire.

“Zweig,” Art says finally, voice flat, “you’re burning the fucking onions.”

Patrick jolts. Swears. Fixes it. Keeps moving.

They don’t talk during service. That’s the rule. That’s his rule.

But when the last plate is wiped, when the rush dies into quiet clean-up and the others slowly filter out, Patrick finally exhales. He rests both hands on the prep table, head down.

He hears the soft thud of Art’s steps before he feels him.

“You good?” Art’s voice is quieter now, less sharp. Less kitchen.

Patrick nods. “No.”

Art leans beside him, picks at a crack in the butcher block. He smells like lemon zest and cigarettes. His apron’s stained with raspberry puree and caramel sugar. His pinky barely brushes Patrick’s.

“You were in your head all night,” he says gently. “Again.”

“I know.” Patrick closes his eyes. “I just… I wanted it to be perfect.”

Art gives a soft snort. “Perfection’s a myth. We’re feeding people, not performing surgery.”

Patrick laughs under his breath—tired, hoarse. “Same pressure, though.”

A beat of silence. Then: “You’re allowed to lean on me, y’know. We’re not just coworkers in here.”

Patrick finally turns, eyes bloodshot. Art’s looking at him the way he always does when Patrick’s close to breaking—like he’s trying to figure out how to put him back together without making it worse.

“I didn’t mean to shut you out,” Patrick murmurs.

“I know.” Art touches his waist, warm and firm. “Just… let me in sometimes.”

Patrick exhales shakily and lets himself fold into Art’s chest, flour and sweat and all. Art wraps an arm around him, presses a kiss to his temple, like they have all the time in the world. Like they’re not both held together with kitchen tape and sleepless nights.

They stay there a while. The kitchen is quiet.

taglist: @blastzachilles, @lvve-talks, @jordiemeow, @strfallz, @222col, @soulxinxthexsky, @diyasgarden, @jinxedbambi, @lexiiscorect, @religionlost, @bluestrd, @jclolz22, @destinedtobegigi, @imperishablereverie, @lovefaist, @shahabaqsa0310, @prismozo, @jesuistrestriste, @grimsonandclover, @nozhdyved, @artstennisracket, @yardofbrunettes, @hangels, @sweetheartfaist

[lexiiscorect]

and if i said hobo!patrick turns his boxers inside out when he can’t get to a laundry mat? or discreetly steals your underwear after you hookup and wears them. thong or not. (one cause free underwear two cause it’s you … duh)

ok that’s all 🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️

[lexiiscorect]

RIFF LORTON WHEN… HE JERKS OFF.

Riff isn’t the type to talk sweet when he’s alone with his hand. He’s filthy when he jerks off—dirty-minded, rough-palmed, and fast-breathing, like he’s chasing a high and daring it to kill him. He doesn’t stroke himself gentle or pretend he’s some kind of romantic.

Nah.

When he’s thinking about his girl, it’s all teeth and sweat and the low, guttural kind of sounds he’d never let anyone else hear.

He always does it the same way—back pressed against the wall, ass down to his creaky mattress in the squat he got for the week, jeans shoved down to his knees, sweat still clinging to his skin from whatever trouble he just walked out of. One hand over his mouth, biting his knuckles to keep quiet, the other wrapped tight around his cock, dragging up and down like he’s got something to prove.

He likes it fast, messy, the sting of friction, the ache after. Riff wants to feel it.

And he always thinks of her. His girl—hot-mouthed, sharp-eyed, the only one who ever dared to call him on his shit. He pictures her straddling his lap, one hand tugging his hair, the other wrapped around his throat, whispering all those filthy things he swears he doesn’t like to hear in front of the guys.

He imagines her telling him how good he is, how deep he’s hitting, how no one else can fuck her the way he does.

But the fantasy never stays soft for long.

He sees her bent over the kitchen table, skirt shoved up around her waist, panties still hanging off one ankle. Her voice, breathy and wrecked, saying please like she’s never begged before. He pictures his cum dripping down the insides of her thighs, her fingers spreading it just to show him what he did to her.

He jerks harder thinking about that—about how she always takes it, how she wants it.

He spits into his hand halfway through, lets it slide down his shaft with a hiss between his teeth. He wants her to make him beg. Wants her to tell him to come on her tits, her face, her tongue. Sometimes he even moans her name, low and broken, right before he spills all over his stomach, gasping like it hurts.

He lies there afterward, chest rising and falling, eyes staring at the cracked ceiling, hand still sticky, breathing out her name like a prayer.

Riff doesn’t tell anyone how bad he gets for her. How his cock twitches just thinking about the way she laughs after he’s made her come. He keeps that to himself—between the mattress and the dreams, behind closed doors and bitten lips.

But every time he finishes, one hand clenched in the sheets and the other wet with proof, he thinks Goddamn, she’s gonna kill me one day.

And he knows he’d die with a smile.

[lexiiscorect]

this picture really represents me..ayo & mike in the same photo